Chapter 30 Alcove
ALCOVE
He’d been shot. Ciaran had been shot. My ex-lover had shot the man I was currently falling for. With a gun. And that wasn’t the worst part of the predicament. If we were caught here, we would certainly be killed—burned alive.
An explosion sounded in the upper mezzanine levels: Rory’s and Fionn’s smoke bombs going off. Well, at least one part of the plan had gone right.
Several more explosions sounded in the upper levels. Smoke billowed, quickly filling the opera house. And as people around us began to cough, choke and panic, they were no longer interested in Ciaran and I. Whether they knew it or not, Fionn and Rory had saved us.
Seff was staring, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water—like he was shocked that he had indeed pulled the trigger.
I launched myself at him, slapping the gun out of his outstretched hand.
And then, with all the strength and power I could muster, I kneed Seff in the balls.
A grunt escaped him and he dropped to the floor like a stone, writhing in pain.
Good. I hoped I had ruptured a testicle.
He deserved it. He had shot Ciaran. He deserved worse than that.
I turned back to see Ciaran snap out of whatever daze he’d been in when the bullet had entered his chest. A large dark patch bloomed at the front of his crimson jacket. He grabbed my arm and pulled me. He grunted. “Run.”
So we ran. I noticed our other major problem: we were on the wrong side of the opera house and there was no way to get back to the mirror. People were coming at us from all sides. We would have to fight our way through the crowd.
“Is there another way to get Beneath?” I gasped as I dodged a random person trying to grab me from my right.
“No,” Ciaran gritted out, “we have to get to the streets.” My eyes widened. The streets would not be safe for us either. But at least we could lose this angry mob.
Blood soaked through Ciaran’s jacket, leaving a macabre trail behind us as we ran.
He was losing too much, losing speed as we ran too.
But we couldn’t stop. Couldn’t do anything but run.
I slid underneath his good shoulder, propping him up as best as I could, dragging him alongside me.
He was too big. I couldn’t do this for long.
“Come on!” I groaned. We were almost at the doors. My heart sank when I saw what awaited on the other side. Gendarmes. Five of them.
“Shit,” Ciaran swore, but somehow he didn’t break stride.
He clenched his left hand and shot his arm straight out, opening his hand and splaying his fingers as he did so.
The glass doors at the entrance of the opera house shattered outwards, shards of broken glass flying toward the gendarmes on the other side.
I heard their cries of pain as we flew past them, almost tumbling down the marble steps and into the cobbled streets of Lutesse.
But those were not the only gendarmes, and more were soon on our tail.
Shit, shit, shit. I couldn’t keep this up.
I couldn’t keep dragging him. My breath sawed in and out.
I thought I was going to faint. But then we rounded a corner into a narrow alleyway.
Before they could catch up, Ciaran’s shadows descended around us and finally, in their darkness, we were invisible.
Ciaran lifted the bone mask, resting it on his forehead.
His face was so pale, pain painted across it.
He slumped, sliding down the wall, clutching his shoulder—his chest. There was so much blood.
The bullet had entered about an inch and a half below his shoulder on the left side.
It was maybe an inch above his heart. I was sure if it had hit his heart, he would be dead already.
There was no blood on his back—the bullet hadn’t exited.
“Ciaran.” I dropped to my knees before him, grabbing his face. He had to be okay. He just had to. “Fuck. Ciaran. What do I do?” His usually warm skin was wan and bloodless. He was losing too much.
“I can heal it. But you have to get the bullet out,” he managed to grind out, hissing through his teeth.
“How?” I watched blood flow from the wound—watched his life force drain from him.
And I was completely helpless. If Elena or Rory or Fionn were here, they would have magic to help, but I was so fucking useless.
I should have trained harder. I should have been more prepared.
Rory was right, I never should have come with them. Panic seized me.
Ciaran pulled a pocket knife out of his boot.
“Seraphina, look at me.” He spoke with authority.
It snapped me out of my spiraling. “I need you to get the bullet out before I can use my magic to heal the wound. Otherwise it will be stuck in there, and I’ll never heal.
I can’t reach it. I need you to do this, love.
” Black eyes met mine, compelling me to do what needed to be done.
“Okay,” I said, voice small. “Okay,” I said, stronger this time, reaching out and taking the knife.
I ripped through his jacket and the shirt underneath.
His skin was on fire, his body already rejecting the foreign intrusion of the bullet.
And it was slick with blood, my fingers slipping and sliding through it as I tried to expose the wound so that I could dig the bullet out.
He was losing so much blood. How did a body have so much blood to lose?
How was I supposed to do this? I was a dancer not a doctor, damn it! Focus, Seraphina. You have to save him.
I allowed myself one deep, steadying breath.
I thrust the knife into the muscle below Ciaran’s shoulder.
He groaned, the blood squelching as I dug in, twisting the knife to try and open the wound so I could reach the bullet.
It was so deep inside of him. I was beginning to think I’d never get to it.
Ciaran gasped as the knife cut through muscle.
I was butchering him. He had to be in agony.
“I’m so sorry.” I sobbed as I burrowed further.
And then, I felt it. The knife hit something hard and metallic.
The bullet. But how was I supposed to get it out?
This was a knife, not tweezers. I needed a way to grab it.
There was only one option, and I didn’t like it.
“Ciaran, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
I plunged my fingers into the wound.
If we hadn’t been trying to hide, I’m sure he would have screamed.
As it was, I could feel his entire body tensing from the pain.
But he kept still for me. I had one hand on the knife, holding the wound open, and the other was digging inside Ciaran’s chest. More blood leaked out of him as I opened the wound further.
I was so close, my fingers sliding through muscle and sinew.
Finally, it was there. Small, round, metallic.
That such a little thing could do so much damage.
I grasped it and pulled my hand out of his chest. Ciaran gasped for air.
He had to be ready to pass out from the pain.
I dropped the cursed piece of metal on the ground and promptly vomited.
Ciaran wasted no time. He placed his right hand over the wound, his golden healing light emanating from beneath it.
He leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, as he let the healing magic flow into him.
We were still cocooned in his shadows. He was using a lot of magic concurrently—powerful.
I watched as golden light poured into his chest—it was finding and healing every rip and tear the bullet had caused.
Every gouge my knife had made in him. And within a few seconds, the wound was closed completely.
Just as it had with my ankle, that golden magic had healed him entirely.
I breathed a sigh of cautious relief. We were still on the run, but at least Ciaran wasn’t bleeding anymore. At least he wasn’t going to bleed out in front of me on the street.
“Thank you, love.” Ciaran opened his eyes, finding mine like a magnet, but the moment was interrupted when a group of three gendarmes entered the alleyway, and we were forced to move.
They may not have been able to see us, but they would certainly feel us here, if they tried to walk through the area where we hid.
We had to keep going. There were more and more of them out here in the streets.
They had seen us escape the opera house and they knew we’d only be able to get so far.
We were being corralled toward the river.
Whether they knew it or not, Scion’s gendarmes were leading us farther and farther away from safety.
We crept down that alleyway and turned down another, hoping to loop back around toward the opera house, but there were more gendarmes that way.
We were forced northward again. And again.
Until our only option was to cross the river to get away from the gendarmes.
There were so many of them—they were desperate to capture us.
Ciaran Fahy and Seraphina Dallier, two witch burnings for the price of one.
The King Beneath and his Witch Whore. The Phantoms of Lutesse.
The Sequana rushed below us, faster than usual, as if she were urging us onward—to get away.
We raced across the bridge, avoiding the golden lamplight overhead as much as possible.
We seemed to have lost the gendarmes, but it wouldn’t be long before they crossed the river as well.
And on the north side, we had no way of getting back to the City Beneath.
We were trapped. We were also extremely conspicuous wearing the costumes from the masquerade.
We could not risk going back to the south side of the Sequana while they prowled the streets.
A group of pedestrians strolled toward us—seemingly travelling from one stop on their nightly entertainment circuit to another. Ciaran yanked me into a darkened alcove before they had time to notice us.